


Socks

by NotEvenCloseToStraight



Series: Good Omens [4]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1941, Apologies, Aziraphale is so sweet, Crowley walking on consecrated ground, Fluff and Mush, Gift Giving, M/M, Misunderstandings, Presents, Romance, Snakey Crowley, Soft Husbands, ineffable husbands, knitted socks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-28 04:50:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19386841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotEvenCloseToStraight/pseuds/NotEvenCloseToStraight
Summary: Based off a post on Tumblr: Azira makes Crowley socks after realizing he'd burned his feet in the church back in 1941*******************“You thought I sssauntered into a church filled with Nazis to dance a little jig and distract you all while I pulled missiles from the sssky, is that it?”“It–it was a lovely dance, if that matters, I thought your legs looked wonderful flapping about–” Azira made an unintentionally hilarious gesture miming how Crowley had moved back then. “–very graceful, all things considered.”“All things conssssidered?!” Crowley leapt from the couch in a display much more graceful than Azira’s awkward flailing. “My feet were burning, angel! Or have you forgotten that demons aren’t allowed on consssecrated ground!”





	Socks

“Are you reading those books _again_?” Crowley tipped his head back over the arm of the couch and squinted over at the angel. “You’ve had them so long, you damn near have them memorized by now, don’t you? Isn’t that boring?” 

“Whether I have them memorized or not doesn’t take away from my enjoyment reading.” Aziraphale didn’t even bother looking up from a well worn page to answer. “Besides, these ones are _special_. They’re the books from the church.” 

Crowley didn’t make any effort to appear impressed. “I know which books they are, I’m the one that saved them, aren’t I? Walked right in and saved you _and_ your books if I remember correctly.” 

“Yes you were rather funny that time around.” Azira stood on tip toes to get his page closer to the light. “Strolling into the church and doing that funny little jig like you did. You looked half mad moving like that. Brilliant ploy to distract those blasted Nazis. I couldn’t hardly concentrate on what I was saying with being so distracted by your dance. Is there a name for that or were you just improvising?” 

Crowley was silent for long enough that Aziraphale finally realized something might be wrong, and risked a glance at the surly demon to check his mood. 

“Oh my, you’re gearing up for a _shout_ , aren’t you?” he peeked over his entirely unnecessary glasses and wondered to himself how Crowley’s bad posture could come across as so _aggressive_ when he wanted it to. “What’s bothering you, love? Was I supposed to know what your dance was back then, because you’ll have to forgive me, I was rather concerned with being dis-incorporated by a couple half wit–”

“You thought I was dancing.” Crowley had a disconcerting habit of asking questions that weren’t questions at all, delivering them in a dangerous enough tone that humans usually turned and fled in fear for their lives, and supernatural beings at least backed up a few steps. 

Aziraphale was no exception, clearing his throat awkwardly and putting a little more distance between himself and a suddenly _snakey_ looking Crowley. 

“Well I– er, ah–”

“You thought I sssauntered into a church filled with Nazis to dance a little jig and distract you all while I pulled missiles from the sssky, is that it?” 

“It–it was a lovely dance, if that matters, I thought your legs looked wonderful flapping about–” Azira made an unintentionally hilarious gesture miming how Crowley had moved back then. “–very graceful, all things considered.” 

“All things conssssidered?!” Crowley leapt from the couch in a display much more graceful than Azira’s awkward flailing. “My feet were burning, angel! Or have you forgotten that demons aren’t allowed on consssecrated ground!” 

“Consecrated?” Aziraphale shook his head negatively. “Oh no. No no. The Nazis would have been burnt half to ash just stepping through then. People like that wouldn’t be allowed in a holy place, absolutely not.” 

“People like that _build_ holy placesss.” Crowley hissed and Azira turned a flustered shade of red. “You though I was jussst dancing through the church? My feet were sssinged for two weeks after! You ever smelt burning snakessskin? It’s _awful_!” 

“Oh my.” The book slid unnoticed from Azira’s hands and thumped to the floor, his eyes going nearly comically wide. “Oh my. “Oh–oh no. Oh dear.” 

“Oh for heav–for hell–” Crowley threw his hands up in exasperation, pulling back his snakey side so the scales slid away from his face and his ‘ _ssss_ ’ weren’t quite so pronounced. “For someone’s sake, don’t get dramatic about it. Was nearly a hundred years ago now, my feet are fine.” 

“Oh no.” The angel still looked perturbed, downright guilty really, wringing his hands and biting at his lip. “You came onto consecrated ground and burned your feet to save my books?” 

“I went onto consecrated ground to save _you_ , angel.” Crowley softened his tone when he saw how worked up Azira was. “I’d do it again, too. It wasn’t all that bad and it was worth it so I could gloat for a few decades about you owing me. Don’t fuss.” 

“I’m very sorry.” The angel whispered. “Your poor feet. I’m so very sorry, Crowley. Very very sorry.” 

“It’s alright.” Crowley was starting to feel distinctly guilty for raising such a fuss about it in the first place. He’d only been trying to wrangle some pity and perhaps lunch at his favorite deli from his angel, perhaps a kiss if Azira was feeling up to it. At the very least a foot massage because the fashionable shoes he wore every day were really the least comfortable pair he’d ever had the misfortune of acquiring. 

“It’s not alright.” Azira said shakily, looking very pale indeed for such a darling cherub. “And I am very sorry you hurt yourself for me, and I didn’t pay attention.” 

“Zira!” Crowley scrambled after his saddened angel and caught him by the stairs that led to the upstairs flat. “Stop that. It’s fine.” 

“It certainly _will_ be fine.” Azira sniffed pathetically. “Just you wait and see.” 

**********************

Crowley didn’t have to _wait and see_ very long at all, as supper that night was ordered in from his favorite restaurant and they ate it sprawled across the couch by the fire, Aziraphale keeping their wine glasses full until Crowley was tipsy and half asleep and then his angel leaned down to dot sweetly chaste kisses over his forehead and cover him with an overly plush blanket of the softest sort. 

And the next day it was an extra long walk through the part of the gardens Crowley loved best and an extra scoop of ice cream that Azira didn’t even _attempt_ to steal away for his own cone. 

Then there were minor miracles of the sort the angel usually refused to do, a suddenly empty table for lunch or all green lights through town– though Crowley had never let a red light stop him in his life. 

Presents in the form of new plants until Crowley’s once bare and rather utilitarian apartment started to resemble a botanical garden and _oh_ wasn’t all of the new plants bursting into bloom at exactly the same time on exactly the same day a nice little touch? Crowley hadn’t known he could sneeze hard enough to blow fire through his nose, and he magicked away the scorch marks on his wall before Azira came by to talk sweetly to the new plants and congratulate them on flowering so well. 

By the end of two weeks, Crowley was fed up with all the sweetness and had started sniping at Azira just to get a reaction other than contrition and apologies, thoroughly regretting saying _anything_ about his burned feet because he was outright _missing_ his angels usually fuss and snark. 

“Azira, now listen.” He strode into the bookshop fully intending to set things straight between them, to announce he’d only been being dramatic and that the consecrated ground _hadn’t_ burned him at all ( _lies, he still tip toed anytime he got near anything remotely resembling a church_ ) and if Aziraphale didn’t give him sort of sass right now, Crowley was _really_ going to muck things up in his shop and wouldn’t that teach the angel to spend so much time being nice? 

“Oh! Crowley!” Aziraphale jumped to his feet with a pile of yarn clutched to his chest and Crowley whipped off his sunglasses and pointed them at the cherub, ready to unleash some scathing– “I made you socks!” 

“….Sorry, you made me _what_?” 

“I made you socks!” Azira hurried over and very proudly presented Crowley with the ugliest socks he’d ever seen, thick and nearly lumpy, threads of yellow and orange and some terrible shade of milky brown all jammed together in socks that would undoubtedly go clear to his knees. “I blessed them, you see. Just lightly so it won’t bother you, but strong enough that you can now dance your way through any church you like without your feet burning!” 

“…you made me socks.” 

“Yes! Do you like them!” 

“I–” Crowley blinked down at the socks and then back up at his angel. “They’re ridiculously’ ugly, angel.”

“Oh.” Azira’s smile dimmed. “Well if you don’t like them– “

“Shut up.” Crowley snatched the socks and magicked away his shoes so he could jam them on. “They’re mine. You can’t have them back. Die mad about it.” 

“Die mad about–” 

“My god, they _are_ ugly aren’t they?” Crowley wriggled his toes in the hideous things. “I’m going to wear them everyday.” 

“Crowley–” 

“Every day.” 

“Honestly–” 

“They’re so ugly. I love them.” 

“Oh well–” 

“And you.” Crowley swooped in and smecked a kiss to his angel’s cheek. “You’ll have to change the _no shoes, no service_ sign on the front of your shop now.” 

“I haven’t–” 

“I’m never wearing shoes again.”

“Very well then. I’ll change the sign.” 


End file.
